


Lesser of Two Evils

by sarkywoman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkywoman/pseuds/sarkywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 6x22. Unfinished and I do not know if/when it will be, but posted at the request of some people on Tumblr. When Castiel proclaims himself the new God, Dean is forced to make another deal with a demon to set things right. Crowley wants a little more than usual to sweeten the pot, but he may have bitten off more than he can handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesser of Two Evils

It’s the middle of the night when someone rattles the door-handle of the most warded mobile home in the world. Crowley looks away from his cheap television and grabs a pistol, eyeing the symbols around the door warily. The ‘new God’ probably wouldn’t waste time with door-handles though, which meant some other bastard was paying him a visit. Given the current circumstances, it was probably too much to hope it was the Avon lady.

“Crowley, I know you’re in there.”

At the gravelly, Clint Eastwood voice, Crowley relaxes his gun a little. It’s Dean Winchester, sounding a little ragged no less. 

But then...Dean is probably His Holy Trenchcoat’s favourite Saint. Could be his first disciple. Crowley can remember the look in those power-crazed blue eyes and it was one he’d seen before. It was obsession gaining ground, lust backed up by power. It’s entirely possible that the first thing Castiel did was make Dean kneel for him. It’s easy to see the appeal of the idea.

“Open the door Crowley, or I’m gonna start praying!”

“Did the Almighty Accountant send you?”

Dean laughs. Genuinely cracks up like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Like it’s the first funny thing he’s heard in years. The boy sounds _broken_ and Crowley hesitates to open the door. 

“I’m here alone. Nobody sent me. Just...open the fucking door? Please?”

Manners get him every time. Crowley twists his left hand in the air in a complicated gesture and the locks and bolts on the door all unfasten themselves.

“It’s open, darling,” he calls, faux-affectionately. He keeps his pistol pointed at the doorway.

The door-handle pushes down and Dean Winchester stumbles up the step into the hovel Crowley is currently calling home. The sight of him is enough to make Crowley put his gun down. 

It’s perhaps one of Dean’s many curses in life that he suffers beautifully. The old God probably did it intentionally so that he’d have something pretty to look at while he shoved the Winchesters through the meat-grinders they called lives. Still, Dean looks tired. No... he looks dead on his feet. Not a scratch on him, but he looks like he could drop at any second. Pale, bags under his eyes, could use a good meal. Crowley briefly considers dragging over a chair for him or taking his heavy-looking bag, but he’s a demon and some things demons just don’t do.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks instead. The quicker he deals with Dean, the quicker he can send the hunter on his way and get back to cowering in a camper van. The little angel who could is probably stalking Dean right now.

“You still doing deals?” Dean asks. His green eyes are a little glazed, overtired. He speaks with concentration, like he’s trying not to yawn. Or cry.

“I don’t venture out to the crossroads as much these days, but I never say no to a soul here and there,” Crowley replies with a smile. 

Dean nods. “Good. I wanna make a deal.”

Then he passes out in a dead faint on Crowley’s sigil-covered floor.

* * * * * * * *

When Dean wakes, he is on Bobby’s sofa. Cas is stood over him with the sort of total stillness that leads Dean to believe the angel was stood there for hours. Just watching.

“Where am I?” he asks, but that’s not what he meant to say. He knows where he is. “Where was I?” He can’t remember.

“Does it matter?” Cas asks, a strange look in his eyes. “You’re here now. With me. Where you’re safe.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Dean asks, moving to sit upright until Cas presses a strong palm against his chest and pushes him back down.

“They are fine. Bobby has gone out for supplies and Sam is...resting.”

“Resting,” Dean repeats deadpan. Cas’ hesitation hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Yes. I suspect he wished to give us time alone.”

“Why?” Dean asks. Nothing is making much sense.

Suddenly Cas is straddling him on the sofa, trenchcoat fanning out behind him. “You know why, Dean.”

“I...whoa, what?” Dean’s sudden panic does nothing to change the fact that he’s getting hard beneath Cas’ body. 

Cas’ eyes narrow, as if with anger, but the expression is gone in a second, replaced with the confused head-tilt that Dean’s always found so endearing. “What’s wrong? We have done this before.”

The fingers of Cas’ vessel, fingers soft from lack of physical labour brush over Dean’s forehead and...he remembers. They’ve done this a dozen times. Why is he freaking out now?

He shifts his legs as Castiel moves, letting the angel get between his legs. He’s naked. Shouldn’t he have noticed that before now?

“That’s right, my love,” Cas murmurs as he runs his hands over Dean’s greedy flesh. “Part your thighs for me.”

Eager for praise, Dean spreads his legs further apart, his left leg hooking over the low back of the sofa. The hungry adoration in Cas’ blue eyes increases. “You’re behaving so well, Dean.” 

The angel wraps his strong hand around Dean’s cock and starts stroking. It’s clumsy and inexperienced, which is odd considering how many times they’ve done this before. It’s still good though, everything is. Raw power emanates from Cas, sending sparks of pleasure along Dean’s skin.

“I know every sensitive nerve in your body,” Cas boasts quietly as he lowers his tongue to lick around one of Dean’s nipples – a hot-spot for the hunter. “I can bring you instant ecstasy, or I can stretch the sensation of bliss along hours until you are so taut with tension that it takes a mere word to break you.”

It’s so damn hot that just the threat has Dean writhing. Well, the threat and the things that Cas is doing with his tongue and fingers.

“Beg me,” the gravelly voice whispers in his ear. “Beg me to fill you with my seed.”

“Oh _Cas_...” Shamelessly, Dean ruts up against his angel, trying to coax the man closer still. “Fuck me, just fuck me, please...”

“And so the first Disciple of the new God admitted his love.”

It’s not the words that shatter the erotic ambience, sobering as they are. It’s the smile, the smug little smile of a man on the ultimate power trip.

Dean remembers. This _has_ happened before. This is just the farthest it’s gone before reality started sliding back in.

“Get the fuck off of me,” he growls. “ _Now_ , Cas!”

The angel’s (God’s) eyes narrow with the fury he’s been hiding so far. “But you’re enjoying yourself, Dean,” he says coldly, squeezing gently on Dean’s erection, as if the hunter can avoid physically responding to that. Dean bucks up and lets out a whine that’s half-pleasure, half-protest.

“Not like this,” he gasps. “Not while _you’re_ like this.”

“I _will_ have you!” Castiel snarls, not even pretending anymore. He grabs Dean’s wrists when the hunter tries to lash out and pins them to the sofa. “You cannot refuse the will of your Lord! I am your Master! After all I’ve done for you, you _owe_ me this! This insignificant act that you perform with whoever passes you, you don’t think me worthy? Me? Your God?”

There’s no fighting Castiel like this. It’s like Sammy on the blood all over again, except this time it’s someone who wants to fuck him in some freaky D/s play with religious overtones.

“Put the souls back and I’m yours,” Dean offers, not for the first time.

“I doubt your sincerity,” Castiel growls before he bites down on Dean’s collarbone.

Then Crowley throws a glass of cold liquid in Dean’s face.

With a gasp Dean splutters awake, blowing away droplets of... “Dude, is that whiskey? Not cool!” It stings his eyes and he frantically wipes them with his sleeve before turning over and rubbing his wet face on the pillow. Huh. Looks like Crowley dumped him on a bed after he collapsed. That’s a nicety he wouldn’t have expected.

“It was cool. It was on the rocks.”

Sure enough, when Dean raises his face from the pillow, he can see little ice cubes dotted around his head. “Douche move, Crowley.”

“Thought I was doing you a favour,” the demon replies, standing by the bed in a way reminiscent of Castiel, but at the same time so different. Crowley stands relaxed, a now-empty whiskey glass in his hand and a look of disinterest on his face. Crowley’s human enough to blink.

Dean winces at the reminder of what he’s just escaped. “Yeah, I guess you were. Thanks.”

Crowley watches him as he sits up and puts his legs down on the floor. The little camp-bed is strangely comfortable actually. The demon heads over to his little kitchen area (it’s amusingly domestic and quaint) and pours himself another drink. He takes a sip before walking back to Dean and offering the glass to him.

“Come on then, tell Uncle Crowley all about it,” he says as Dean sips the alcohol and lets it burn his sore throat.

“I don’t think so,” he chuckles. The very idea of confiding in Crowley is ridiculous.

“I’m not asking in the interests of us having some flowery heart-to-heart,” Crowley snaps. “In case you haven’t noticed, the scary boy stalking you happens to be the most powerful thing in the world right now and as such, I’m quite interested in what he’s up to. What I saw going on up there...” he reaches over and taps a finger on Dean’s forehead, hard enough to hurt, “That’s something you should share with a responsible adult.”

“And you think that’s you?” Dean asks, incapable of holding back the snark. When Crowley just continues to watch him with amusement, Dean’s brain catches up with his ears. “Wait... what you saw?”

Nothing’s said. Crowley just raises his eyebrows as if to ask if Dean’s surprised. To be honest, Dean’s never surprised by Crowley’s knowledge anymore. He seems to know everything about everyone. That he can dream-walk or read minds comes as no shock, really. 

“So you saw. Yeah, well...” Dean’s throat closes up after that. Sam never found out what was going on. Bobby had vague ideas, but nothing too astute. Sitting there under the interrogating gaze of someone who _knows_ means that it’s actually happening.

Jesus fucking Christ, it’s all really happening.

“Don’t chuck up on... Oh, really. First you pass out on my floor then you vomit good whiskey everywhere. If I’d wanted a teenage son I wouldn’t have beaten the ones I had until they ran away to die.”

Dean pushes himself back into the corner of the bed, draws his legs up and huddles there. It’s all too much. He’s running on empty, racing across the country by foot and stolen car to keep ahead of someone who can teleport and is dead-set on hunting him down. Barely any food, because he couldn’t afford to be seen by anyone who Castiel could talk to later. No sleep, because whenever he slept...

“Stop being sick!”

The frustrated yell makes Dean laugh, a little bubble of hysteria that lets him convince himself he’s not crying. “Your bedside manner sucks,” he says breathlessly with what sounds a bit like a giggle.

A sharp smack across his face snaps him to attention. Crowley is glaring at him but with a hint of trepidation, like he’s waiting for Dean’s next breakdown. His hand is still poised to strike.

“I think I’m okay now,” Dean mumbles, slightly embarrassed. He looks around and hops off of the bed, avoiding the sick and heading to the kitchen unit where he finds a roll of paper towels. He comes back and starts mopping up the mess.

“Doubt it,” Crowley says dryly, returning to his armchair. “But in the interests of keeping my floor clean, we’ll ignore your rape crisis until we can go somewhere with fresh air. Or a bucket.”

“It’s not...” Dean huffs. “He hasn’t done that.”

“Not for want of trying, I figure,” Crowley replies, smirking again as if the whole situation is just a big comedy show that he gets to sit back and watch. “It’s just as well that you’re too paranoid to fall in with his love and worship brainwashing tactic. I’m guessing you can normally wake yourself up?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. That was the first time I... I couldn’t get free.” For a second he’s going to be sick again, but he meets Crowley’s hard gaze and manages some deep, calming breaths.

“Don’t panic,” Crowley says calmly. “It’s not a sign that his hold on you is increasing because of your secret desires to be Saint Submissive. It’s just because you’re exhausted. When did he start this assault on your dreams?”

“Straight away,” Dean answers. “The night of the eclipse. After you ran. That night I had this dream and he promised to make everything better if...” His throat rebels against speaking the terms out loud.

“If you grabbed your ankles like a good little slut,” Crowley says with all the delicacy and tact of a sledgehammer to the testicles. “I can’t believe you’re so surprised. An angel fell from heaven and died for you. Repeatedly. Where did you think he would focus all the holy devotion once his daddy was gone? Then there’s the corruption from Purgatory and really when you think about it the only surprise is that he didn’t kill you right away then start shagging your corpse while telling you how much he loves you.”

“You’re sick.”

“So’s he. Isn’t that why you’re here? I assume you’re not here to hide under my bed until our determined new Overlord sees past my wards.”

Dean shoves the dripping paper towels into the bin and sighs. It shouldn’t have taken so long to get to this point. He needs to get his head together. “How much power is in a deal? What can you do? Like, your maximum.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “For a soul?”

At Dean’s nod the demon laughs. “I thought your family were beyond that sort of bargaining these days.”

“Desperate times,” Dean shrugs. “You found Death for Bobby’s soul. Can you do anything about Cas if I give you mine?”

“Maybe...” 

And Dean’s ready to start yelling about mysterious answers, but he can see Crowley’s thinking it over, staring into the distance.

“We’ve got no other option,” Dean says, hoping to sway the demon in his favour. “Cas isn’t gonna stop. He’s gone all Old Testament on the world and I just... I believe in free will, damn it!” Reminding himself why he’s still fighting more than anything, he notices Crowley is staring at him. “What?”

The demon grins. “Sorry. Your soul does a little shiny thing when you get all passionate about a cause like that. I’m appraising the merchandise.”

“I don’t really care. You don’t even have to give me ten years. Just get Cas back, fix Sam and if Bobby’s dead I want him back too. I lost touch with him after he agreed to lead Cas away from me. He drove off in the Impala and I never saw him again.”

“Tsk, that was a nice car, too.”

Dean glares. “Have you got the power to pull this off or not? You’re my last hope.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “That’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard. Now say it like Princess Leia.”

Pulling at his hair with frustration does nothing to change Crowley’s amused expression. “ _Crowley_! Do you want Cas to find me here?”

That sobers the bastard. “No. Definitely not. Okay.” Crowley leans forward in his seat and Dean takes a few steps closer. “So here’s the thing. The deals are limitless in power, theoretically. I mean, there have been demons who have changed the course of history with a well-placed sales technique. Entire wars happened because of a crossroads deal. Of course, wars were averted too. It’s not all doom and gloom.”

“So can you do it?” Dean asks, getting impatient. He’s got no time for the lecture. There’s no telling how long his protective spells and Crowley’s warding rituals will keep Cas at bay.

“With a single soul? No. _Almost_ ,” Crowley says, holding up a hand to stall Dean’s anger, “But only because it’s your soul. Even with that Righteous shimmer I’m going to need more honey in the pot though.”

“What, like...more souls?” Dean wrinkles his nose up at that. Even with the world going to shit, he’s not ready to sacrifice other people to Hell. God knows he’ll be inflicting enough pain when he goes down there again, without bringing new friends along for the ride. “Because no on that.”

“No, not more souls. More...” Crowley makes a strange motion with his hands like he can’t find words for once. “It’s not really something in the dictionary. Souls have a certain...something, okay? It makes some souls more valuable than others. Your soul has a lot of it, but combining other souls into the bargain will just negate your special something and bring us back to square one. We need to balance the give and the take. You’re asking for a lot and you haven’t put enough on the table.”

“Well then what can...”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

Dean recognises the moment Crowley thinks of something. It’s in his eyes, despite his poker face. “Tell me.”

“You’ll hate it.”

“Tell me.”

“You’ll think it’s a trick.”

“Tell me!”

Crowley shrugs and leans back in his chair. “Bind yourself to me.”

“What?” Dean’s brain goes bizarrely straight to thoughts of a three-legged race, tying their ankles together. With all the bondage porn he’s watched in his life, he’s bemused that that’s the first image that comes to mind.

“When you go to a crossroads and you drop that little box into the ground, you are giving a part of yourself to a demon. It’s like a deposit. Even if your soul’s worth jack-shit, a demon might give you something small for whatever you’ve already given of yourself. It’s a ritualistic thing.”

“So...” Dean can’t quite see where this is going.

“So we need to tip the balance. Your soul’s worth a lot, as I said. But a little lockbox with a fake ID and a lock of hair isn’t going to provide the extra clout we need. You need to give more. And there’s little more you’ve got left to give, if you catch my meaning.”

“And what exactly does binding myself to you mean?”

“Means I get everything. Everything you own, everything you are. Considering what you’re going through with Cas the Wonder Wings, I won’t be surprised if you turn it down.”

“You’re basically suggesting I give myself to you instead of Cas.”

“Yep. I am the lesser of two evils, darling.”

That’s kinda hard to believe. Crowley is, after all, the King of Hell. “And what do you get out of that?”

Crowley looks at Dean as though the hunter is particularly slow. “You, body, mind and soul. Not to mention the chance to stop the Newest Testament God from smiting my arse off.”

“What do you want with me?” Dean asks, unable to find a way of saying it that doesn’t make him sound like a frightened damsel.

The demon wrinkles his nose. “Nothing really. It’s just the kind of sacrifice you have to make if you want to change something as big as an angel turned God.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion or Cas’ constant battering of his mental defences, but Dean finds himself confessing quietly, “I don’t think I can go back to Hell.” He’d never be able to take a second round on the rack. 

“It’s not what it was,” Crowley says. When Dean doesn’t express immediate heartfelt relief, Crowley sighs. “I can’t promise you much, do you understand? You don’t have the leverage. Yes, your soul is…unique. But what you’re asking me for is a miracle. More than that, even. So I _cannot_ offer you anything beyond stopping the loony angel, do you understand? Officially you’re getting the wellbeing of your brother, dear old Uncle Bobby and the winged wonder. If you want me to guarantee your wellbeing, one of them’s got to go.”

“No,” Dean says quickly, shaking his head. If he can’t save those three people, saving the world means nothing. His year with Lisa taught him that, which he’s ashamed to admit. Her and Ben were nothing but good to him, but they weren’t enough. They weren’t his family. Dean knows his family by the blood they shed, fucked up as it is.

“Will you just listen to me, you ignorant little…” Crowley trails off, clenching his jaw in irritation then taking a deep breath before he speaks again. “I cannot _verbally guarantee_ you won’t be tortured in Hell. Get me yet?”

Right. No verbal guarantee. But the way Crowley is nudging his eyebrows up to his vessel’s receding hairline means… “I won’t be.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and shrugs dramatically. “I couldn’t say. Are you always this slow?”

While it’s some measure of relief, it isn’t enough. Dean’s not an idiot, despite popular opinion to the contrary. He remembers when Bobby dealt with Crowley. The crossroads bastard had insisted he’d give the soul right back and even then, with a verbal agreement, he’d welched on the deal. If Dean can’t even get Crowley to say aloud that torture isn’t a part of his insurance plan, how can he expect the King of Hell to keep his soul comfortable?

“Clock’s ticking. You were the one who pointed out we don’t have all night. Get on board or get out and draw fire to some other bastard’s caravan.”

“With…all of me… in the pot, you’ll be able to fix the wall in Sam’s head and save Bobby?”

Pursing his lips as if thinking it over again, Crowley nods. “Darling, let’s just say that in the soul business you’re sitting on an oil-rich country. There’s not much I can’t do with your soul in my sails. Course, you are really pushing the boat out with certain demands.”

“Like stopping Cas.” You can’t just unmake a God, after all.

“Not so much. Like the Pagan deities, he’s just a very powerful being at the moment. I need to relocate that power. Doing it without killing him, that’s the hard part.”

“Can you?”

Crowley meets his gaze, uncharacteristically serious. “Only if you pledge yourself to me. Body and soul. Believe me, if I could offer you a better price, I would. But this is what it’s going to take. Pure and simple. There’s no profit margin on this. I’m only asking you for the boost I need.”

A laugh escapes Dean’s lips, bitter and brief. “Let me guess, you’ll give me back afterwards.”

“No.”

The honesty is startling, making Dean stare. Crowley just shrugs unrepentantly and leans back in his chair, one arm sprawled lazily across the back of it.

“But I will give you back your Cas. So it’s up to you. Is he worth the sacrifice?”

As if the world doesn’t know Dean Winchester’s priorities by now.

* * * * * * * *

Up until now, Crowley’s progress has been gradual and subtle. His whole life and death he has worked for the things he has achieved and they have always seemed like small rewards. Baby steps up the chain of command. One mundane rung at a time until one day he found himself at the top of the ladder surveying his kingdom. Even then, as King of the Damned, the title is simply a job. He is merely undertaking responsibilities that have wider repercussions. The ratio of work to reward has actually plummeted against his favour. He has more paperwork than ever.

But tonight he feels very much like the King of Hell. In fact, he feels like an unimaginably powerful antagonist from a variety of ancient myths. Any of them, all of them, rolled into one being that looks down upon the naked body of the Righteous Man and takes his soul as payment for the safety of a broken angel. Add to that the thrill of knowing that Castiel’s fate was wrought almost entirely by Crowley’s own manipulation and this moment becomes almost too much to bear.

Dean doesn’t have the audacity to play the part of the blushing virgin. He lays himself bare on the cheap mattress and simply says, with a gesture to his own body, “Well, have at it.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Crowley says, throwing his tie aside and pulling off his jacket. He would have liked to ask Dean to undress him, but there’ll be plenty of time for that later.

When he owns the boy there will be time for everything.

“You want romance?” Dean snaps. “That wasn’t part of the deal. Body and soul.”

“Stashing the heart away somewhere safe?” Crowley mocks as he kicks aside his designer shoes. “Aww, I never knew you were such a softie.” He slides his belt off and unfastens his trousers, dropping them down to his ankles. Dean’s eyes immediately lose their confidence as the reality of the situation hits him. “You of all people should know what happens to a person whose soul is in bad company. The heart just tags along for the ride.”

He steps from the rumpled puddle of his trousers and pushes his underwear down. Toes off his socks as an afterthought. Dean’s gaze is fixed firmly on Crowley’s sizeable member. Is it fear or lust making his lovely lower lip tremble so? If it’s lust, then Crowley can truly make a Heaven of Hell.

“Ever been with a man before, love?” Crowley asks as he sits down on the edge of the bed and starts running his hand over the warm, soft skin of Dean’s leg. The consummation of their deal shouldn’t be happening here. It’s like a celebrity wedding having their honeymoon in a rundown bed and breakfast. Something of this cosmic importance ought to be taking place in a woodland clearing under a full moon, or in a gothic style five-star suite. He shouldn’t be despoiling Dean Winchester on the thin single mattress of a camper van’s pull-out bed. But he has no choice. He’s wanted this long enough that the circumstances are simply a minor annoyance.

“A couple,” Dean replies, trying for bravado. 

Crowley slides his hand from Dean’s thigh to his cock, which is laying limp between his thighs. Time to rectify that. He wraps his hand around the warm member and begins stroking gently. Virgin gentle. Dean still watches Crowley’s hand like he’s wearing sandpaper gloves.

“Did they fuck you?” he asks, softly. It’s important to ease Dean into this. Crowley’s never been a fan of reluctant bed partners. It’s a waste of a good skill, to fuck the miserable and unworthy.

“Uh…I fucked one of ‘em.” Dean’s right leg twitches when Crowley twists his palm a certain way. The hunter’s starting to harden under the attention.

“Not what I asked, pet. Did either of them fuck you?”

Dean shakes his head, looking nervous again. Obviously he’s just now realised that Crowley has no intention of being the bottom tonight. “Do we have to do that?”

“What do you think?” Crowley asks, raising an eyebrow as he meets Dean’s eyes. They’re both outwardly ignoring the fact that Dean’s hard between them, shifting slightly in Crowley’s grasp.

“It’s gonna hurt like a bitch,” Dean grumbles, scowling at Crowley’s cock. The demon’s only half-hard himself, determined not to seem too eager, but already he’s a threatening size to a virgin.

“Nah,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t you worry, Winchester. I won’t stop the foreplay until you’re begging.” He uses his other hand to tweak lightly at one of Dean’s perky nipples. He’s rewarded with a delightful sound that Dean seems incapable of keeping in.

“You don’t have to make this more than it is,” Dean mutters, looking up at the dirty ceiling now as if he can pretend he’s somewhere else, ashamed of his little slip-up when Crowley had found one of his happy places.

“Darling, _this_ is your eternal damnation. It’s my duty to make sure you go out with a bang and a whimper.” He takes a tighter hold on Dean’s hardness, making the hunter gasp in a breath. “Where do you want me?”

“I… I dunno, you decide.”

So pliant already. What a treat. Still, Crowley has always suspected an easy little hedonist lay beneath that bad attitude. Someone with such a miserable existence would be easily won over with a little kindness.

He climbs over Dean’s leg so that he’s nestled snugly between the man’s firm, strong thighs. Oh yes, this is a very good place to be. He leans down and suckles on Dean’s nipple while massaging the other with his thumb. Dean lets out a long moan, right from the bottom of his lungs. It makes Crowley want to bite, but he holds back. There’ll be time for that later.

Dean’s hands finally find a place to be, resting on the back of Crowley’s head to keep his mouth teasing that hard little nub. Somebody should have told Castiel about this trick. Crowley swirls his tongue around it, grazes his teeth against it, downright fellates the sensitive teat.

Dean’s palms nudge at his head. “Other one,” he gasps. Crowley obliges, running his fingers teasingly over Dean’s cock as he gets to work making love to the other nipple with his mouth. Dean is rock hard beneath his light touch, accelerating Crowley’s plans for the evening. 

He pulls away, savouring Dean’s quiet whine of loss, and reaches for the lubricant placed in clear view on the shelf near the bed. Dean’s eyes are wide as he watches Crowley lube one finger up. 

“It’s alright, love,” Crowley soothes. “I’m in no rush. Just gonna show you what you’ve been missing.”

“I’m not worried,” Dean says quickly, so desperate to seem tough that he’s forgetting he already confessed to his concerns about pain.

“Good,” Crowley replies, just about stopping himself from saying ‘good boy’. He’s not sure how Dean will respond to that yet. He has his suspicions, but doesn’t want to play the card before it’s time. He leans down low and with a gratuitous swirl of tongue, takes the very tip of Dean’s cock into his mouth. The hunter cries out, surprised. He obviously wasn’t expecting Crowley to be a generous lover. Ah well, he’d learn.

Crowley presses the pad of his index finger down firmly against Dean’s hole. Dean flinches, shunting his cock into Crowley’s ready mouth by another inch or so. Crowley slowly rubs his finger back and forth over the little puckered hole, not venturing in at all. Getting Dean used to pressure there. Soon Dean isn’t tensed up and flinching, he’s just accepting the odd sensation of Crowley’s finger while basking in the rub of lips and tongue on his cock. That’s when Crowley slides his fingertip in, pushing gently at the tight rim of Dean’s arse. He gets a startled little sound from the hunter for his trouble, but it’s by no means a bad sound. He wriggles his fingertip, slowly working it in deeper. It’s not strictly necessary – he reckons he could shove two fingers in here without much prep – but it’s pleasant to introduce Dean to this so slowly. It’s been a while since he’s taken his time with someone.

“That’s not so bad,” Dean says, sounding genuinely relieved.

“People wouldn’t do it so much if it wasn’t fun,” Crowley replies, taking a brief moment away from Dean’s cock before rubbing his lips over the wetness collecting at the tip in a parody of a chaste kiss.

He hasn’t gone very deep before deciding to double Dean’s pleasure with an added digit. Another squirt of lube to show what a gentleman he is, then Crowley’s easing two fingers in. This time he’s less teasing, more firm. Dean’s arse is snug around his knuckles, but Crowley twists and scissors until he can get his fingers right in there. 

“Oh, fuck!” Dean cries out his loudest exclamation yet as Crowley hits his prostate. The demon licks up the pre-come forming on Dean’s dick like a cat lapping up cream, then continues moving his fingers around inside Dean’s body. The hunter is inviting him in now, rocking back on the fingers like a good little slut, albeit a slightly hesitant one.

“Did _not_ think it’d feel this good,” Dean whispers, panting for breath. Crowley glances up at him. He’s beautiful in his pleasure, dropping about ten years as the freckles stand out on his flushed cheeks and his eyes dilate with lust. Dean’s tongue swipes out to wet his luscious lips and Crowley promises himself he’ll taste them soon before taking his mouth back to Dean’s hardness. He sneaks another finger in past Dean’s tight ring, sliding it in with the other two through the copious slick of the lubricant. 

Dean widens his legs to give Crowley better access and the demon has to grip himself for a moment and take a deep breath. He wants to be in there right this second but he has to take his time. Dean Winchester is an investment, not a one-night-stand.

He keeps his fingers moving, pushing up against the slick, velvety walls, as he leans up to murmur in Dean’s ear. “You’ve got three of my fingers in your arse, know that?”

“Oh…” Dean breathes, looking stunned. He’s still humping Crowley’s hand though, so the idea must appeal to him at least a little. “It’s good. Didn’t think it would be.” His words come in broken little gasps as he’s almost overwhelmed with the pleasure. Crowley’s willing to bet Dean isn’t thinking at all about why he’s here anymore.

Crowley starts sucking on the lad’s nipples again, just to see how senseless he can get him. He’s not disappointed. Dean moans out, high-pitched and loud, and throws his head back into the pillows.

It’s impossible to wait any longer, but Crowley’s determined to do this properly. He takes his mouth back to Dean’s ear, nibbling at the lobe a little before whispering, “I want to be inside you now.” He nips at his ear again. “What d’ya reckon?”

“Yes,” Dean gasps, drunk with sensation. Just how Crowley wanted him. “Do it. Fuck me.”

A quick rub of lube over his cock and he’s ready to split Dean Winchester wide open. He spreads his fingers as wide as he can as he slowly draws them out and the sound Dean makes is bloody _broken_ with want. God, what Crowley would give to have the lad’s family watching this, Singer, the Moose and that psychotic little angel. Just imagining the looks on their faces as stubborn, righteous Dean turns into a wrecked slut…

It’s dissatisfying to ease in so slowly, but Crowley’s put in too much effort to ruin it now. He knows there’s some pain from the wrinkle of Dean’s brow, so he rubs his thumb in teasing circles around the head of Dean’s cock as he works his way in deeper.

“How’s that feel?” he asks when he’s completely in, his balls against Dean’s body.

“Fuckin’ full. Jesus. I have a demon cock in me. Fuckin’ fuckin’ fuck.”

Crowley takes that as his signal to move, making the tiniest little shifts of his hips to get Dean accustomed. The small motion has Dean writhing, new to this kind of pleasure but hungry for more. Crowley pulls out an inch and shoves back in and Dean makes a naughty little yelping noise. He drags himself almost entirely out and Dean grunts, pushing back towards him to try and get him back. Crowley obliges, pushing all the way back in, and Dean cries out with bliss. The hunter wraps his legs around Crowley’s body and kisses him hard, which gives Crowley a turn at being pleasantly surprised.

Dean takes control of the kiss, his tongue eagerly exploring Crowley’s mouth. Crowley lets him have that, far more focused on the way Dean’s arse tightens around him. He breaks away from the kiss to say, somewhat breathlessly, “I can’t believe nobody’s had you before. That I’m the first to see you like this.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never done this either,” Dean replies, the last word ending in a groan as Crowley continues to fuck him. “If I’d known it felt so good…”

The end of that comment is kissed out of him. Crowley knows who Dean would have spread his legs for if he’d considered it sooner. It’s too late for that now. This tight, hot arse is now the property of the King of Hell. It’s only ever going to know Crowley’s cock. But that’s fine. Judging from the way Dean’s writhing, Crowley’s cock is the only one he’ll need.

“Shit, I’m gonna come… Crowley…”

“Mmm, do it,” Crowley purrs. He wants to see. Wants Dean to fall apart under the demon that owns his soul.

He leans down and sucks a lovebite into Dean’s arm at the edge of the presumptuous handprint that’s already fading. Then he wraps his hand around Dean’s cock and starts giving quick tugs, relishing the way Dean clenches down around him each time. 

“Oh, yes, yeah, yeah… I’m gonna…oh…”

Then Dean’s crying out Crowley’s name, spilling between them and shuddering both outside and in. Crowley lets himself go, coming deep inside Dean’s body, spurting his seed along the quivering channel. He pulls out slowly, dragging it along with him so Dean can see how dirtied he is. Dean’s eyes are fixed on Crowley’s cock as it’s pulled from him and when he sees the come his spent cock twitches again and he wets his lip distractedly.

God, Crowley is going to make this lad into something _devastatingly_ decadent. But for now he reaches up and pats Dean’s cheek gently. “All done,” he says, still breathless. His cock is still throbbing with the aftershocks. “You rest that pretty head. Let me handle clean-up.”

Dean is too worn out and orgasm-drunk to argue. He lays down while Crowley dampens some paper towels and by the time the demon returns, Dean is sound asleep, looking utterly debauched.

Crowley sits on the bed and takes in the sight of him for a while before finally starting to mop up the come from his body.

All things considered, he really is a lucky bastard. 

* * * * * * * *

Dream-walking is a skill that takes centuries to perfect. Dreams shift and follow no sane path. Actions have no consequence and many consequences come from absent actions. Emotions are never kept silent in dreams, but are spoken aloud without a thought or expressed through touch and behaviour.

Is it any wonder then that Castiel seeks out his beloved in the realm of dreams? Dean is increasingly malleable in his unconscious mind, slowly submitting to his God. All their petty arguments are forgotten as Castiel presses him back into the soft cushions of Bobby’s sofa, or the backseat of the Impala. In dreams Dean does not blame him for the loss of either.

Dean dreams of quiet nights in a motel, of Sam fully-recovered from the damage that has left him a drooling vegetable. Castiel can make these dreams a reality as soon as Dean accepts his position. It is such a small thing, what he asks of his beloved, yet Dean is as stubborn as ever. Tonight though, tonight he will submit. Commit. Their last tryst had been going so well until the abrupt, unexplainable interruption.

Castiel is dwelling angrily on that obstacle when he steps into Dean’s mind and for a brief moment, he thinks his temper has shaped the dream. For this is nowhere safe and familiar. This is Hell, where the fire burns cold and the ice burns hot and both of those are the kindest sensations to be found.

No matter. Dean has dreamt of Hell before, many times. This is simply an opportunity for Castiel to rescue him, to be his saviour once more.

But something is amiss here. The demons do not snarl and grab at his wings as they did upon his original descent into the Pit to save the Righteous Man. Nor do they flinch or flee as they should from the wrath of God. They simply watch, black eyes staring passively. Patient.

“They’re not scared of you.” Dean’s voice echoes through the dark cavern. “And neither am I, not anymore.”

Castiel finds the new senses he has become accustomed to are useless here. He is forced to look up, squint through the darkness with his vessel’s eyes. 

Dean sits on a throne atop a set of steps. The throne is made of bloodied bones, the cushions covered with human skin. He does not look like Castiel’s beloved. His eyes are dark and his soul is twisted. His mouth is covered in blood, like smeared lipstick. 

“What is this?” Castiel asks, then snarls at himself for being so weak as to seek enlightenment from his own consort. “I am here to save you, Dean. Come with me.” He attempts to reappear within Dean’s personal space, but only manages to reach the bottom step. His power is failing him.

With a smirk, Dean looks down the steps to where the God stands. “What’s the matter, angel? Having trouble getting it up?”

“You do not belong here,” Castiel says, holding his hand up in Dean’s direction, inviting him to be rescued from this darkness.

“Don’t I?” Dean asks. He seems oddly comfortable. “I’ve lived here longer than anywhere. It’s really the only candidate I have for a home.”

“I can take you back to Sam,” Castiel tries. His hold over Dean is more effective with gentle manipulation, when Dean fails to remember that he believes Castiel responsible for many of his current woes.

“What good will that do me? I seem to recall you broke him and I couldn’t put humpty-dumpty back together again.”

Castiel lowers his hand. Dean is surprisingly lucid. Also, in dreams of Hell he is usually torturing or being tortured. So far there has been an absence of both. 

“This is not a normal dream.”

“Ding, ding! And the angel wins a prize.”

“I am no longer a mere angel,” Castiel reminds him. If Dean is going to recall their problems, then Castiel will force him to recall the entire situation. “I am your God.”

Dean stands from his throne and power crackles around him, invisible but palpable in the hot air. Since opening Purgatory, this is the first thing that Castiel has not understood. Of course it would be Dean to confuse him so, wouldn’t it? Inscrutable, perfect Dean.

“If you’re my God, why are you so _desperate_ for my favour?”

“You are to be my Saint,” Castiel explains, ignoring the brief flash of uncertainty deep within that Dean’s questions always manage to awaken in him. 

“Do I look like a Saint to you?” Dean asks, bloody lips turned up in a smirk.

Castiel runs his gaze over the man. Dean looks debauched and decadent, his usual hunting clothes traded for black leather and occult jewellery. Under the short sleeve of his black t-shirt, the handprint Castiel had replaced on him is fading. At its edge is a dark bruise. 

“Where did you get that?”

A slow, wicked smile curves Dean’s mouth. “My little present from the King of Hell.”

_Crowley._

“What have you done?” Castiel thunders. His voice ought to shake the walls of this cavern, to shatter the stalactites and blow out the fires of Hell like candles. It doesn’t. It echoes, making him sound so small and alone.

Suddenly Dean is right in front of him, his strong hand wrapped up in Castiel’s tie and tugging him in closer. Castiel tries to shove at him but Dean is immovable, stronger than God.

“I’ve done what you made me do,” Dean growls. “As always, I’ve given everything. That’s what I do for family, Cas.” The once-affectionate nickname is sneered from Dean’s lips disdainfully.

“You have given too much this time.” It is meant to be a judgement from God, but the words tumble out in a horrified whisper as Castiel catalogues the lovebites and bruises and the dark, twisted soul. Dean is so altered…

Too altered. There is no possible way this corruption could have taken place in the short amount of time since their last encounter. Castiel frowns at the man, who still holds his tie in an unshakeable grip. “You are not Dean. This is not Dean’s dream.”

“Sure it is,” Dean says, slowly twisting the fabric around his fist. “I’m dreaming of what’s to come. I guess I should thank you for that, you’re clearly bleeding your powers of omniscience all over the place.”

“That’s impossible.” But even as he speaks, Castiel is aware he is merely being contrary to defy Dean’s strange new powers of insight. It is entirely likely that, as God, his powers of knowing all that has been and all that will ever be have led him to a vision rather than a dream. But what does such a vision portend? “You would never sink as low as this.”

“I think we both know that isn’t true. There are no depths I won’t sink to for the people I care about.” Dean pulls on his tie, dragging Castiel in closer so that his next words brush over the God’s lips. “I was willing to do _anything_ for the angel I loved. Remember that when I have a razor in my hand again. Please remember that.”

Castiel draws back, struggling against Dean’s grip. The hunter’s eyes are green again, yet filled with despair. “Let me help you,” the God insists, attempting to return to his original purpose here. “Do as I ask and I will give you everything. Love and obey, Dean.”

Dean laughs without restraint and releases Castiel’s tie. “You can’t help me. Can’t you feel your power draining away? I’ve arranged for you to have a soulectomy. You’re welcome.”

His power is proving difficult to focus, but Castiel had assumed that was due to being in a dream or vision. But he follows Dean’s gaze to the ground, where shadows are emerging from his trouser leg and sinking into the ground. The souls are leaving him. How can this be?

He grabs for them, but they slip through his fingers like smoke, drifting away in their hundreds. He is weakening with every loss. He glares at Dean. “How are you doing this?”

“What makes you think I’m doing this?” Dean asks. “I was just the fee, paid up-front to someone who’s as nervous about you as I am. Almost.”

“Crowley.” Castiel needs to leave this place, needs to smite the King of Hell. But he is not ready to leave this dark reflection of Dean. There is still so much he must know. “You have bound your soul to him.”

“Body too,” Dean smirks, quirking an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

Immeasurably. Crowley’s death will be excruciating. “You of all people ought not be bound to Hell.”

“Believe me, I know.” Dean licks his lips and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I don’t think Crowley knew what he was unleashing. He thought he could _use_ me.” He growls. “Now you’re all gonna burn.”

“This has not yet come to pass,” Castiel says firmly, trying to ignore the souls fleeing the cage of his vessel. “This is a vision. A warning given to me by myself, that I might save you.”

Dean smiles and steps closer again. He twists a finger in Castiel’s shirt and kisses him slowly, his skilled tongue sweeping around his God’s mouth eagerly. It is the first kiss he has had with Dean that has not been stolen from him and Castiel savours it, easily forgetting about the power he is losing.

The kiss ends when Dean pulls away and laughs. “You’re going to save me? You? When you’re so easily wrapped around my little finger? When you leave here you’ll find you’re nothing but an angel. How long do you think we have before this…” Dean gestures to the demons bowing all around him, “Becomes a reality? How long before my righteous soul learns to love the Pit? And we all know nothing good comes of a Righteous Man bound to Hell. Especially with all those new Purgatory souls floating around down here…”

Castiel grabs Dean by the shoulders and shakes him. Dean allows the trespass. “I will not let this happen. I will return and I will make you _mine_. I am your Lord and my will is law! This vision will not come to pass!”

Dean slides a hand up his own arm, fingers the bruising beneath the fading handprint scar. “This bit already has. I belong to Hell now.”

“You belong to _me_.”

“No, Cas…” Dean reaches out and cups his face gently, as a lover would before a kiss. “You belong to me. And when you leave here in…oooh… three seconds, that’s going to be the only bit you remember.”

There is time to frown and say, “I don’t unders…”

Then Castiel - _Cas_ \- is crashing into a rain-drenched sidewalk gasping for breath as the weight of his recent actions crash down upon him. He is an angel once more. He is no longer…

He had declared himself God. _He had declared himself God_.

“Father forgive me,” he chokes out against the concrete under his face as the rain beats down on his back.

It all starts flooding back to him, memories of his behaviour swimming before his eyes. The ‘miracles’. The damage done to Sam, more and more until the younger Winchester was completely unresponsive. The sickening snap of Bobby Singer’s neck in Castiel’s own hand. Dean begging him to stop, fear in his eyes as Castiel pinned him down and demanded his submission…

For the first time in memory, his vessel is sick, vomit mixing with the rain. He heaves until he has exhausted himself then wails to the world, uncaring of the bystanders who stare.

“Dean!”

And that is where Castiel remains, howling with grief and shame, until two gentlemen in police uniform drag him to his feet and into a car.

* * *

Dean is used to waking from nightmares, shaking and weak and disorientated even as the horrors slip quickly from memory. 

He isn’t used to having a mouth wrapped around his cock while he trembles in the aftermath of what must have been a particularly creepy nightmare. He’s almost scared to look down, frightened of who he might see licking at his erection. Apparently a nightmare wasn’t enough to stop him getting hard.

“Morning,” Crowley says cheerily before taking Dean into his mouth again. 

It’s too early to get a grip on what’s going on and Dean is too damn tired anyway. He was running on empty for months before tracking Crowley down and last night’s sleep has only served to remind him how exhausted he is. So he relaxes back into the pillows and lets Crowley do his thing, trying not to think too much of the night before.

It had been good though. Dean had no expectations, unwilling to even think about what it was going to be like, but then out of nowhere Crowley had seduced the fuck out of him. The thought of the demon’s cock shoved up inside him, filling him up… It’s actually a turn-on now rather than horrifying.

Dean moans quietly, still too sleepy to be a very active participant as Crowley brings him nearer orgasm. He whispers swears under his breath as that clever mouth works him over more thoroughly than anyone ever has before.

“Cheers for not kicking up a fuss about this,” Crowley says, using his hand to compensate on Dean’s cock as he speaks. “I thought you might be a little sensitive to sleep molestation but you looked so bloody delicious with your morning wood. You understand.”

Still not entirely with the situation, Dean just blows out a breath and shrugs carelessly as Crowley jacks him off. “S’ok.”

Crowley smiles warmly down at him, his mouth curving in a way no demon has any right to manage. “Good boy,” he murmurs, before effectively killing any protest Dean might have made by putting his mouth back to Dean’s cock. 

Dean spares a moment to wonder where the hell his life is at right now, then decides not to worry for the next ten minutes at _least_. He rocks his hips up greedily and Crowley makes no move to stop him, deep-throating him like he lost his gag reflex centuries ago. The demon even makes approving noises, like he’s happy for Dean to be selfish in bed. Aiming to please, Dean manages to co-ordinate one hand to grab the back of Crowley’s head and fucks his mouth lazily.

He yawns as he comes, making a choked-off sound like a cry. 

Crowley swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards.

“I’m a believer in getting a day off to a good start,” he smirks, looking down at Dean, who makes some garbled noise in response. “Sleep well?”

The demon lays down beside him like they’re a married couple or something, but Dean takes the weirdness in his stride. Crowley owns him now. He’ll have to pick his battles. “Not sure. I don’t think so.”

Crowley frowns with what looks suspiciously like concern. “Not our Trenchcoated Overlord again?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.” He _thinks_ Cas was there, but his recollections of the dream are all too hazy. “Didn’t you peek this time?”

“Had more important things to do, darling. If you’ll remember, you set me a few little tasks in exchange for the privilege of pounding your sweet arse into the mattress.”

Dean thinks of the deal, of Bobby and Sam. _Cas_. For the first time since Crowley put that talented mouth on him the night before, Dean feels a slither of shame wrap around his gut. But he had no choice. He’s only done what he was forced to do. So what if he enjoyed it a little along the way? He could go to Hell at any second, he’s damn well entitled to a little joy. 

“Can I see them before we go?” he asks, not expecting a positive response. 

“Go where?” Crowley asks, still far too cheery for this time in the morning. Also distractingly naked. Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the demon’s face.

“You’re dragging me to Hell soon, right?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Now, why would you think that? _I_ don’t hang around down there much and I rule the bloody place. Since you’re mine now, I have every intention of keeping you in one piece. Dumping you in the Pit would probably leave you as broken as your brother. Sorry, as broken as your brother _was_.”

Dean sits upright in the bed. “You’ve fixed him?”

“That was part of the deal,” Crowley says slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. “Didn’t you trust me?”

He laughs, as if the idea of trusting Crowley is ridiculous. Which it is, of course, but the reasons for Dean’s surprise run much deeper than that. 

“You’re not used to winning, are you, sweetheart?”

Crowley’s irritatingly astute. Dean is forced to nod and admit, “Normally when I win, I lose too.”

“Well yeah. I own you. That’s a loss for you, isn’t it?”

“But you’re letting me stay here on Earth, you’re letting me see Sam and…” His mind is whirring with unusual optimism. “Bobby? Is he okay? And Cas?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Crowley says, stretching his arms up so that he can fold his hands behind his head on the pillow. It draws Dean’s attention to his body. While Crowley doesn’t exactly have the physique found in a men’s magazine, memories of what that body did to him the night before leave Dean’s skin tingling and only the man’s voice snaps his attention back to the topic at hand. “I’m sure there will be a few more emotional issues between you all, but you boys will get all that worked out with a few near-death experiences and quiet moments sat on the car watching the sunrise.”

Dean forces a chuckle at that, but his chest is tight. He’s got them all back. He’s been living a nightmare and suddenly after one night it’s all back to normal. Like he woke up and it’s all a frickin’ dream. Except he’s still magic-married to the King of Hell. “So they remember everything?”

“I would think so. Not one-hundred-percent certain though. I imagine you’ll find out when you see them.”

 _When you see them._

It’s all more than he could have hoped for. For a moment he can only stare at Crowley. A demon, a bastard crossroads pimp turned Hell King. The reason Cas lost his mind and the man who kidnapped Lisa and Ben to stop Dean doing the right thing. What kind of a world is it when this is Dean’s saviour? It’s not the one he wanted. If he’d planned to chain himself to anyone it would have been the one who gripped him tight and raised him from Perdition. But then that angel turned God and Crowley really had seemed the lesser of two evils.

The morning after, he still seems like the best choice. Dean hadn’t anticipated that.

“So…when can I see them?” It grates on him to have to ask, but while Crowley’s being so fair, Dean figures he can play his part too.

“As soon as you’ve returned my morning favour, darling,” Crowley replies with a smirk, gesturing towards his hard cock.

Completely against his will, Dean’s mouth waters. He licks his lips. “Yeah. Okay. Fair’s fair.”

He slides down the bed, between Crowley’s legs. He tells himself he’s doing this for his family, because this deal was necessary to save the world from Cas’ power trip.

As Dean’s tongue tentatively touches salty skin, Crowley murmurs “good boy” under his breath and threads his fingers through Dean’s hair. 

Dean shivers with arousal and suddenly, it doesn’t matter why he’s doing this, only that he is.

* * * * *

The police station is quiet. Not perhaps by a human understanding of the word, but to someone who has spent months deafened by the screams, howls and snarls of a million monstrous souls, it’s as good as silent. The officers who dragged him into a car have put him into a cell with two inebriated men. They believed him to be drunk and disorderly.

Castiel takes advantage of the time for some quiet contemplation. He has other places where he would usually go to think, but at this moment he feels unworthy of them. They are sacred places that soothe his turmoil and right now he deserves the turmoil. He hurt his dearest friends. They had earned some of his anger, of that he has no doubt, but what he had done went far beyond what was forgivable or just. How can he ever look them in the eye again? 

First of all, he must set things right. He thinks painfully on what he has wrought. Bobby is not going to become _more_ dead, so perhaps Sam is the most in need of healing. He is broken, psychologically scarred and becoming more damaged with every moment that Castiel leaves him in that state. 

Maybe when he has saved Sam and Bobby, he will be able to speak a word to Dean before the hunters roast him in holy oil.

He rises to his feet, ignoring the guard outside the cell who tells him to sit back down. He spreads his wings and is at the hospital where Dean had sat by his brother’s bedside day and night for a week. Eventually of course he had been forced to abandon Sam as Castiel launched an all-out attack on Dean’s willpower. The hunter had fled, leaving Sam with an old AC/DC t-shirt and a kiss on the forehead.

Sam is no longer laying where Castiel expected him to be, drooling and comatose with his eyes open unseeing, much like Raphael’s vessel once the archangel had vacated. Instead the younger Winchester is pacing, his phone pressed to his ear.

“Dean, call me when you get this! I need to know you’re okay! Bobby’s on his way to get me, just…” Sam stopped speaking the second he turned on his heel and saw Castiel stood in the doorway. Slowly, Sam lowers the phone. “Let me guess, you never meant for me to wake up.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side as he inspects Sam. The damage that was done to him should not have simply worn off as Castiel lost his power from Purgatory. _He follows Dean’s gaze to the ground, where shadows are emerging from his trouser leg and sinking into the ground._ The memory is vague and fleeting. Had Dean done this? Was the hunter somehow responsible for Castiel’s loss of Godhood? He can’t remember. The last thing he recalls is hunting Dean down, determined to impose his will upon his beloved.

“I am no longer…God. Not that I ever truly was, of course. I was deluded. Mad with power.” It is the first time he has spoken it aloud and hearing it makes him wince. “I came here to set things right, but it seems someone else got here first. I’m glad to see you’re well.”

“You’re _glad to see I’m well_?” Sam asks incredulously, his face wrinkled into what Dean would surely call a ‘bitch-face’. “You put me in a LIVING HELL!”

“Sam…” Castiel takes a step forward when suddenly cold metal presses against the back of his skull. A gun.

“Not another step, you bastard,” Bobby Singer growls behind him, miraculously alive. “These shells might not have worked on you when you were God, but they’ve got enough sigils and holy oil in ‘em that I reckon they’ll leave a large hole in an angel’s brain.”

“I’m glad that you’re alive, Bobby,” Castiel says quietly, just in case they do not give him a chance to express it later.

“Can it,” snarls the older hunter, jabbing the gun hard at the back of Castiel’s head. “Me and Sam don’t give a damn about your feelings. Not after what you did. All we wanna know is what you did to Dean.”

“I have done nothing to Dean, I would never harm him,” Castiel says, bewildered. Then he looks back down at the ground as he realises he has lied. He would wish no harm on Dean as he is now, but while he was ‘God’ he hunted the hunter. He manipulated and deceived him, pushed him against walls and floors and tried to seduce him with force. Now he stands before Dean’s family and denies his guilt. His shame grows heavier.

“Before you snapped my neck, you said some things that made it very clear what you intended for Dean,” Bobby says, still holding the gun steady. “So don’t you stand there and bullshit us. What did you do to him?”

“I…” _Dean’s eyes were dark and his soul twisted._ “I don’t remember.” Had he harmed him? The thought twists his grace like the worst torture. The last clear memory he has is infiltrating one of Dean’s dreams. From then on everything is unclear. He had seen him though, he’s almost certain of it. But what had happened between them? 

“You don’t remember?” Sam says, parroting Castiel once more. “What, was Dean just another name on a long list of people to fuck over? How can you _not remember_?!”

The gun is pulled away from the back of Castiel’s head. “Aw hell, we got cops, Sam. I s’pose I shouldn’t have been waving this around.”

This is something Castiel can deal with. This is a situation where he does not question himself. “Here.” He grabs Bobby’s shoulder and Sam’s wrist, trying to ignore the way they both struggle away from him as he transports both men back to Bobby’s living room. As soon as they are released they both stumble away, putting distance between themselves and Castiel. 

Sam regains his footing first, wild-eyed and furious as he grabs a knife from Bobby’s table and turns. He doesn’t move any closer to Castiel so there is no imminent threat (nor is there any threat at all from an ordinary blade), but his intent is clear.

“Where’s Dean?”

“I don’t…” Castiel tries to explain again, but is not allowed to speak.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember!” Sam yells, waving the knife at him. “You _try_ and remember! After everything you did this is the least you can do!”

“I can’t sense him. The Enochian marks on his ribs hide him from me.” He would know if Dean was gone though, wouldn’t he? The very atmosphere would feel different if Dean Winchester was no longer in the world.

Bobby slowly places his shotgun down on the table, seemingly willing to let Castiel live for now. “Well I can’t think of any ritual that’ll penetrate all the wards I put around him to try an’ keep you away.”

“So how are we supposed to find him?” Sam asks, still panicking and still wielding his knife. “We just sit around waiting for a hospital call in hopes that Cas left enough of him for identification?”

Shame is temporarily shoved aside by fear and fury. “I would not have killed Dean!” But the things he might have done… Castiel cannot bear to think on it.

“Oh, but you could kill me?” Bobby asks, scowling. “You could drive Sam into a coma? How can we know that you wouldn’t reduce Dean to ashes for failing to bow?”

Castiel cannot respond. There is no acceptable answer. He loves Dean differently than he loves Sam and Bobby. He has always loved Dean. Even twisted by the perversions of a million monstrous souls, there was enough of him left to love Dean. Unfortunately that affection and adoration was warped by the power of purgatory into obsession. He would have done _anything_ to win Dean’s submission. Killing him had never been an option, however. Had the soul travelled to Heaven or Hell, Castiel might have lost him forever. The only way to control the destination of Dean’s soul would have been to cradle it in his grace. Even drunk on power Castiel had known better than to touch Dean’s soul while holding the souls of Purgatory. The taint of them might have seeped into Dean and the damage could have been irreparable. 

Sam runs a hand over his face, seeming very tired. He places the knife down on the table, but glances at Castiel and picks it back up again as if he can’t yet shake the paranoia. “Okay, so what’s the last thing you remember?”

Castiel sighs. “I could not find him. My only way to speak with Dean was by infiltrating his dreams. I remember seeking out his soul in sleep and then…” _The pits of Hell._ “…Nothing. I think he was dreaming of Hell but I don’t recall seeing him.”

“You were in his dreams then,” Bobby says, scowling. “I thought so. How often?”

“As often as I could,” Castiel admits, though it sickens him to think on it now. He had become another nightmare to plague Dean’s rest. Once upon a time he had been the only thing to grant him mental sanctuary.

“You son of a bitch,” Bobby growls. “It wasn’t enough to fuck up one Winchester’s brain, you had to go for the pair?”

“What happened?” Sam asks, looking between the two of them. While Sam had initially fought the damage done to him after the collapse of his mental wall, his psychological decline had come quickly afterwards. No surprise then, with such trauma, that he had failed to see his brother’s slower breakdown.

“Dean wasn’t sleeping right,” explains Bobby. “He stopped drinking booze and replaced it with coffee and energy drinks. Thought I didn’t notice the way he kept clutching at his heart. It was like he was desperate to stay awake. At first I thought he was just worrying about you, I mean he stayed by your side all night every night when you, uh…”

“Went batshit crazy?” Sam asks with feigned nonchalance.

“Yeah. So I thought it was just a combination of stuff, like he was scared to waste time sleepin’ when we could be researching… Then one night he passed out at the table and within minutes he was begging for mercy, pleading.”

Both Bobby and Sam turn harsh glares on him. Castiel remains silent. What is there to say? He behaved abysmally. Lying would only compound his guilt. “You must know that in my right mind I would never hurt him.”

“Until we find him safe and sound I don’t know that,” Sam snaps, still brandishing the knife as though it is capable of harming Castiel. Being an angel may _feel_ like a substantial decrease in power, but it will still require more than a knife to harm him.

“We must find him,” Castiel agrees, nodding. “If only I could still utilise some of my former power…” While Dean had been sufficiently warded that he had been mostly guarded from Castiel’s all-seeing gaze, the souls of the Purgatory creatures had loaned their various powers of perception to the hunt. They had all wanted to claim Dean Winchester, persuaded by Castiel’s emotions that he was the only one worth having.

“You show even a hint of your former power and I’m putting a bullet in your skull,” Bobby growls. “Do we need to remind you that you went insane?”

“No,” Castiel answers, hanging his head in shame. “I need no reminder.” The look in Bobby’s eyes as Castiel wrapped his hand around the hunter’s neck is a memory that will stay with him forever.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Right then, I guess the first step is to start unravelling the wards on Dean. If you work on that, Bobby, I can start looking into powerful locater spells.”

“What would you like me to do?” Castiel asks, eager to help. He needs to find Dean, needs to know there is some hope that things can go back to the way they were.

“Honestly?” Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’d like you to go fuck yourself. We don’t need your help.” He turns away and heads over to Bobby’s books.

A verbal admonishment is far less than he deserves, but it still makes Castiel’s heart sink. Perhaps he should just leave and find Dean himself. Maybe he can merely fade from their perception and wait until they have found a way to trace Dean.

Then there’s a knock at the front door. They all look at one another, not daring to hope. Bobby grabs the shotgun and heads out, Sam following with the knife. Castiel flies outside.

Dean is stood at the front door, hands in his pockets. The sun is shining down on him and Castiel’s heart aches at how nervous he looks. He wants to reach out, wants to call his name, but the thought of how Dean might react is paralysing.

The door opens, shotgun first. Castiel moves immediately between Dean and the barrel of the gun. Logically he’s aware that Bobby would not shoot unless he was certain that it was a creature impersonating Dean, but accidents could happen.

“It’s Dean,” he says firmly, twisting the gun from Bobby’s hands and casting it aside to the dusty ground. He turns back to the hunter who looks like he isn’t sure whether to hug him or run from him. The hint of fear makes Castiel’s grace feel brittle and sore. He has earned that look. Demons and monsters fail to intimidate Dean but he, Castiel who was once family, can incite fear in Dean Winchester.

“You’re all okay,” Dean says, sounding shocked as he looks between the three men. “Sammy? How’s the, uh…” He taps his forehead in an attempt to communicate what he means.

“Better than I’ve felt in a long time,” Sam says. It’s true. Though Castiel has not examined Sam’s brain closely, his mind appears healthier than it was prior to the taint of demonic blood. How that’s even possible is unclear, but right now it is merely something to be grateful for.

“Bobby?” Dean reaches out and pats his adoptive father on the arm as if to assure himself that he’s there. “I don’t know what happened, but I figured…”

“Feathers snapped my neck,” Bobby finishes with a glare at Castiel. “Yeah. Should we head inside or are we gonna continue this heartfelt reunion on my porch?”

Dean reaches down and picks up the gun. Together they walk back into Bobby’s home, making their way through to the living room. Dean sits down heavily on the sofa, looking around like he can’t believe he’s here. Of course it has been a long time since he has been in Bobby’s home for real. The last few times he was here it was a dream constructed by Castiel to lure his beloved into submission.

Sam sits down beside Dean, reaching out to squeeze his brother’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean chuckles quietly. “Yeah, I think I am. Finally. Bit tired, but… I just can’t believe it all worked out. That you’re all here.” He looks up at Castiel then, meeting the angel’s eyes for the first time. “And you? How are you feeling?”

Castiel can feel the effort it takes for Dean to speak to him, and appreciates it. “I am no longer your enemy.” There is so much more to say, to explain, but it isn’t something to be done here in front of Sam and Bobby. “And I will find a way to make things right.”

“One step at a time, Cas,” Dean mutters, looking away from him down at the floor.

“What Dean’s saying,” Bobby says as he crosses his arms, “Is that you’ve done enough damage. We don’t wanna see you around here anymore.”

It is no less than he expected, but the words still churn Castiel’s stomach. “I…what I did was due to the monstrous souls within me.”

“You killed Ellie before even taking in the damn souls!” Bobby yells. Of course. He still mourns the woman from Purgatory. As if Castiel would have harmed an innocent human woman. Bobby still has no idea what she truly was. 

“Eleanor Visyak was not an ordinary woman. And she was much more dangerous than she led you to believe.”

Bobby is in no mood to listen to him however and he storms across the room to grab the gun from Dean’s lap. “This is my house and I won’t have you here,” he snaps, aiming the gun at Castiel. “Now I ain’t asking you again.”

“Bobby, hold up.” Dean stands and puts himself between them, his back to Castiel in a way that he would not have allowed in the past months. “We’re not playing the blame-game here.”

“Like hell we ain’t,” Bobby growls. “That bastard killed Eleanor and are you forgetting he let Crowley take Lisa and Ben?”

Now _that_ is simply not true. “I did not allow…”

“Shut up, Cas,” interrupts Dean, without looking back at him. He continues talking to Bobby. “He did what he thought he had to do. He didn’t know any better. I know there’s a lot of bad blood between us at the moment, but we’re gonna work it out. I’m just so fucking tired of fighting all the time.”

“And I’m tired of seeing you boys get hurt,” Bobby argues. “I just can’t trust him anywhere near you. If he really gave a damn, he wouldn’t trust himself either.”

Meeting Bobby’s hard gaze, Castiel can see the man’s true concern. This isn’t about Eleanor Visyak or Sam, though they are major contributing factors. No, Bobby can still remember what Castiel said to him, back when he was mad with power and focused intently on one objective. Words like those are not easily forgiven. If someone threatened Dean in that way within Castiel’s hearing, he would destroy them. Had Sam heard his words, Castiel doubts very much that he would have been allowed to stay here this long.

He has to leave. Later he can return and speak to Dean, when everyone is much calmer. “Dean.” He puts his hand on the hunter’s shoulder to draw his attention.

Dean whirls away like he’s been struck, heart rate increasing and eyes going wild like cornered prey. Immediately he tries to calm himself, obviously embarrassed by his extreme reaction, but it’s too late. Sam is rising from his seat, obviously concerned. Bobby is glaring, Dean’s reaction proving all his suspicions correct. Castiel sees their reactions out of the corner of his eye but it is Dean that he watches most of all. Dean meets his gaze with a hint of apology there, knowing that he has made Bobby’s point for him. 

Castiel can stay no longer. He flies to an inhospitable desert a continent away and sits in the centre of a sandstorm, torturing himself with the fear in Dean’s eyes.

* * * * * * *

“God damn it,” Dean mutters under his breath after Castiel has flown away. “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”

“Funny,” Sam says in a tone that means it’s anything but, “Because it looked like you were afraid of Cas.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dean snaps, though he knows there’s no point. He had majorly freaked out when Cas touched him. It was such a gentle gesture too, as if he’d known how Dean would react.

“Dean, it’s okay,” says Bobby as he puts aside the shotgun. “After what he did to you, you’re gonna feel a little uneasy. Nothin’ to be embarrassed about.”

Great. Now Bobby and Sam are looking at him like some freaking abuse victim. Which, okay, isn’t too far from the truth, but what ideas are they getting in their heads about what went down between him and Cas? “It’s not like he hurt me, guys. Did more damage to both of you. _That’s_ what I’m pissed off about.”

“Oh come on, Dean,” Sam groans, in the preliminary stages of a bitchface. “Cas was always obsessed with you. You expect us to believe you got away freely?”

“Not freely,” Dean defends. “He harassed me. Kept asking me to bow. That’s it. It was just one big argument whenever I closed my eyes.”

Neither of them look like they’re buying it. But for now, they don’t seem to want to argue. Bobby shrugs. “Well I still don’t want that bastard in my house. After what he did to Sam, Eleanor, and let’s not forget he snapped my neck.”

“Yeah, and I started the Apocalypse after selling my soul,” Dean reminds him. “And Sam helped it along after some demon blood.” He ignores Sam’s betrayed look. They’re not supposed to talk about those days anymore. “We’ve all made mistakes, Bobby. His were just…bigger.”

“Well then you gotta be prepared for ‘bigger’ consequences,” Bobby gripes back. “Maybe I can get over it in time. But I ain’t had time. Not yet. Was a time when I’d have trusted that angel with your life, but that time’s over. I don’t want you boys anywhere near ‘im now.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘well gee Bobby, you’re not our dad’, but Dean’s stomach still hurts whenever he remembers saying the words years ago. The way Bobby had looked at him… He’d never felt so bad about his big mouth. Besides, knowing Cas he’s probably going to turn up tonight anyway, invited or not. Dean’s still not sure how he feels about that. As long as he doesn’t dream-visit. _He looks down at the little God, so small and pathetic in the darkness of the pit. A bright little piece of glitter that thinks it’s the sun. He can break it._

“Dean?”

Sam’s voice startles him and Dean realises he was zoning out completely. “Sorry, I’m fine,” he says. “Just tired.” No lie there. Months of light naps to replace real sleep as he hiked across America couldn’t be caught up on just because he slept like the dead after Crowley screwed him silly. 

God, it doesn’t even feel like last night can co-exist with today. It seems surreal in retrospect, like maybe he imagined the whole thing.

“Okay, but before you crash, what happened? How did you stop Cas?”

The question shakes him. He hasn’t prepared an answer. Scratching the back of his head, he says, “Um, what makes you think I stopped Cas?”

Bobby raises an eyebrow. “You showin’ up on the doorstep minutes after everything gets back to normal. Idjit.”

“Oh.” Dean forces a laugh out. “Yeah. Uh, Crowley said it was all sorted, said I’d wanna head back here and see you. I didn’t believe him but looks like he was right.”

“Did Crowley happen to say what happened to sort it?” Sam asks, not sceptical so much as curious. “I mean, it must have been some serious mojo.”

Dean shrugs. “No idea. I figured Cas would tell us, but I guess not. Maybe God did it. You know, the real one.”

“Maybe,” says Sam with a shrug, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m surprised He let Cas off so easy after the mess he made though. God normally metes out some tough punishments for blasphemy and idolatry like that.”

“Does it matter? I mean, you’re fine, Bobby’s fine, Cas…probably will be fine, I’m fine. I’m not gonna look a gifthorse in the mouth.”

Okay, _now_ they look suspicious. It’s the rambling, he really needs to just shut his piehole sometimes.

“Dean.” It’s so hard to meet Bobby’s stern look. Dean feels like a kid who broke a window. “What did you do?”

“What makes you think I did something?” He feels like he has ‘soul-tramp’ written across his forehead for everyone to see. In all honesty, he’d been worried Cas might smell Crowley on him or something weird like that.

Sam takes a step closer, eyes narrowed at him. Why does he have to be so tall, seriously? “The last time you talked like this, you’d sold your soul to save my life.”

Damn, damn, damn. Sam being so astute freezes Dean’s tongue. 

Bobby notices, of course. “Aw hell, Dean, say you didn’t…”

“I didn’t, okay?” Because he’s just got them back, he can’t take their disapproval yet. “It’s not like that. I think we probably owe Crowley one, but I didn’t sell my soul. I think we’ve all learned our lessons on that one.” It’s like he can’t stop talking, pulling more and more lies over himself like blankets. “Now _please_ can you let me crash? I need to sleep for months.”

Looking guilty, they stop the inquisition. Seems that what Crowley affectionately referred to as Dean’s ‘rape crisis’ is good for something.

“I’ll clear the junk outta the spare room,” Bobby offers, “Let ya have the bed instead of the sofa.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “There’s a bed in there? And you never told us?”

Bobby shrugs. “Ah, you’re young, both of ya. A night on the floor never hurt anyone.”

“My spine would argue with you on that one,” Sam says, rubbing at his neck as though he is aching from sleeping there recently. The gesture makes no sense of course, since Sammy just got out of the hospital bed he was stuck in for months. Still, it’s a faint-hearted attempt at banter and for that Dean loves his brother all the more.

He sits on the sofa, just for a minute, then wakes as Sam gently shakes him and pulls him to his feet. “Come on, Dean. Bedtime for big brothers.”

Grumbling, Dean only puts up a token protest as Sam helps him up the stairs. He’s been feeling dead on his feet for so long now that the exhaustion is a familiar friend. This is simply the first night in a long time that he’s actually able to submit to sleep without fear.

The notion really sinks in when Sam pulls the blankets up over him without comment. He’s safe. He’s actually finally safe.

_Even Hell, when he dreams of it, feels safe and familiar now._

* * * * *

Revellers drunk on the tears of sinners conduct celebratory orgies and blood-rites in the fiery pits of Hell. It’s all rather gauche, but sometimes these things need to be done. 

Crowley presides over the chaos, violence and debauchery, as is his duty. He’s offered all manner of whores but refuses them all. There’s only one body he wants to violate right now and it’s sound-asleep at Robert Singer’s Auto-Salvage. That’s fine. Unlike his unambitious horde, Crowley is a man of patience.

A Purgatory soul, shaped like a giant, slobbering wolf, leaps from the shadows like a hellhound’s nightmare and rips into one of the orgies, tearing apart a few souls. Then it bounds away, leaving behind screaming demons and shreds of twisted demon soul.

The power of Purgatory is not assimilating into Hell as easily as Crowley had hoped it would. The appetites on the ancient souls are starting to trouble him. No matter how many demons they devour, they’re still hungry. Crowley has the sneaking suspicion that they’re at a loss, that the consumption of demons is simply an attempt by the Purgatory souls to sate whatever strange craving they do have.

He has only tentatively tried to communicate with the creatures. His sense of self-preservation prevents him from actively demanding their submission to the King of Hell. At this point he’s just sort of hoping they grow to recognise his leadership in this domain. Surely with the continued deference of the demons around him they will understand in time that he’s the top dog down here.

Even the dead demons and monster souls that Castiel had carried over are twisted into something threatening. They should have been nothing to him, weak and cowering, but their time in Purgatory has made them strong and feral. A part of him is still dreading the possibility that Lilith is one of the souls that Castiel gobbled up, now floating around in the Pit waiting to strike.

Nah, he’d know by now. Two things these Purgatory cast-offs don’t have – patience and subtlety. They’re roving Hell on instinct, devouring and mating and growing tired of neither. Perhaps bringing them down here was a bad idea, but Crowley has never been one to linger on his mistakes when he could be fixing them. Problem is, he has no idea how to manipulate creatures like this. All of them twisted and perverted beyond even demon understanding, and not all of them were even intelligent to begin with. Some were monsters since birth, incapable of understanding human speech. He can’t strike up a deal with that or deceive it and those are his usual party tricks.

“Crowley!” The voice is female, belongs to a promising demon called Tyranny. She strides up to his throne, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Tyranny, always a pleasure,” Crowley says smoothly. Tyranny is on both his ‘Useful Allies’ and ‘Potential Threats’ lists, so it’s best to stay sweet with her. “Where’s your pet this evening?”

She nods over her shoulder to the bloody orgy going on nearby. Sure enough, there’s Terror, his fucked-up soul made to look like his latest human vessel as he participates gleefully in the festivities. Tyranny, in contrast, is not making an effort to appear human this evening. She stands seven feet tall and pulses with a faint glow like a lava lamp.

“I’m not here to talk about him.”

“Ah. Could I interest you in a whore then?” At the moment his offerings are just gathering dust on their meathooks.

“Maybe later,” Tyranny says with a disgusted twist of the lips. “I’m not here to make a request for your party either.”

Crowley sighs. “Is it something that can wait then? I don’t want you to ruin the mood.”

“Any more than the rampaging Purgatory creatures?”

He narrows his eyes at her, irritated that her concerns mirror his own conundrum so closely. “Minor blips. The celebrations continue. Survival of the fittest and all that.”

Tyranny puts her hands on her hips. “You think I’ll be dismissed with such empty words? Your kingdom might not mean much to you, but without it you won’t be a King.”

“I _know_ ,” he snarls. The bitch doesn’t even flinch at his rage. He settles back into his throne. “The souls will adjust. We just need to wait.”

“They need guidance,” Tyranny suggests thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

“Ha, good luck with that. What makes you think the marauding souls of Purgatory can be guided?” Tyranny is powerful, but her ideas always come back to the same thing – control. It has its uses, but sometimes her philosophies just don’t apply.

“Because up until recently they were confined and commanded, weren’t they? That angel had them, told them what to do. If he could do it, why can’t we?”

Crowley frowns out over his domain, watches the twisted soul of the Purgatory wolf in the distance as it disembowels one of his generals with its teeth.

“I don’t know. But tell you what, Tyranny, I’ll find out.”

The woman nods. “That’s all I ask for. Now, about those whores…”

* * *

Castiel stands in Bobby’s scrapyard, staring upwards. But his eyes aren’t on the stars in the night sky, rather he is focused on the window to the room where Dean sleeps. Two nights have passed since their difficult reunion and Castiel has kept his distance. He does not want to hurt Dean further. He _needs_ to speak with him though. He needs to know what transpired between them in that time he cannot remember. He needs a chance to confess and repent. Of course, the human mind is more fallible than an angel’s and it is entirely likely that Dean remembers even less.

This spot between the burned-out metal skeletons of two old cars is as close as Castiel can get to the house. Bobby has been incredibly thorough with his warding this time. Castiel cannot even feel annoyance about it, knowing the man simply wants to protect Dean from the monster that Castiel no longer is.

His skin itches when he thinks of the things he had threatened to do to Dean with his foot on Bobby’s chest, pinning the swearing man to the ground. He had been so furious then. The anger and frustration had grown with every day that he didn’t have Dean. Bobby had used complex magic to make his soul resemble Dean’s then had sped out in the Impala as far from Dean’s true location as he could. By the time Castiel had realised the deceit, he had already been tricked into losing Dean. The souls within him had _roared_ with rage at this denial of what was rightfully his. Bobby had paid the price.

It is no wonder then that the man permits Castiel no closer than this. In fact, if he knew of the angel’s current proximity he would most likely be out here brandishing his shotgun.

Reaching Dean’s dreams will be difficult through the warding, but manageable. It’s surprising how much more difficult it is now that he is a mere angel. Before Purgatory, Castiel had always felt privileged to possess as much power as he did. Having nearly fallen to a human state had made his reinvigorated powers seem incredible. It was only the ensuing civil war that made him feel weak. Being up against Raphael , knowing the Archangel could use his phenomenal power to harm his friends at any time, it had made Castiel feel powerless. And now that he can no longer harness the power of Purgatory, his former power seems incredibly meagre.

Still he manages to intrude on Dean’s rest, walks into his peaceful dreams…

They are not peaceful at all. Castiel freezes in horror when he sees the scene before him. The very trenchcoat he is wearing is duplicated on the man – no, _creature_ \- pressing Dean down against wooden floorboards. The monster trying to violate Dean is wearing Castiel’s face.

“Bow down and profess your love,” it snarls, eyes changing colour from blue to black to red. “Obey! Give yourself to me, slut!”

Dean is crying, pleading, frantically fighting but unable to get away. 

Worst of all is the knowledge that this is merely a slight exaggeration of memory. For months, this is what Castiel was. This is what he should have seen when he looked in the mirror. He only saw his power. He didn’t see what it was turning him into.

It is when Dean’s clothes disappear that Castiel forces himself into action, dragging the monstrous version of himself away from Dean’s body. “You are not worthy of him!” he roars into the reflection of Jimmy Novak’s face. The ‘God’ collapses in on itself as Castiel shakes it, eventually nothing but a cloud of dust dissipating between his fingers.

Hearing Dean’s shaking breaths, Castiel turns to reassure him. 

Scowling with teary eyes, Dean brandishes an angel blade at him. “Come near me and I’ll chop it off,” he says through grit teeth, more a growl than a statement.

“That was not me, Dean,” Castiel explains, trying to correct the misunderstanding. “That was just a dream.”

Dean’s expression does not change. “Yeah? Well given what I’ve been through these past few months, you’ll forgive me if I have trouble telling the difference.”

“I would forgive you anything,” Castiel replies solemnly, before taking his leave.

This time he sits alone on an uninhabited tropical island approximately one metre in diameter. He wonders if he needs to give Dean more time, or if an eternity will not be enough to erase his crimes.

* * * * * *

It takes a week of lazing around drinking before Bobby finds a case for them. Well, Dean was lazing around drinking. Sam was hovering around being concerned.

The case Bobby throws them is a simple salt and burn, but Sam still tries to say Dean’s not ready. Dean manages to glare at him until he changes his tune. Dean Winchester is always ready for a salt and burn. The nightmares he’s having now are nothing compared to the ones he had straight after Hell and he worked his ass off then. No sense in sitting around Bobby’s now feeling sorry for himself.

So they take the case and it’s one of those sweet ones where it’s all simple. The guy who was murdered then is the guy doing the murdering now. He was buried in the nearby cemetery where the soil is soft. Couldn’t ask for an easier hunt to get back into the game. God knows Sam needs a gentle job. He’s all achy and stiff from his time spent in a hospital bed. Lost a lot of weight too, so much that Dean’s able to convince him to grab a burger at the diner instead of a salad.

In fact Dean throws himself into worrying about Sam so completely, it isn’t until a British voice interrupts his shower that he remembers he has a reason to worry about himself too.

“Hello darling. I like this view.”

Dean turns under the spray to look at the demon who owns him. The ruler of Hell, stood in a motel bathroom eyeing up Dean’s body like it’s twirling around a pole. Their lives are fucking ridiculous sometimes.

“Not now, Crowley,” Dean says, keeping his voice low. “Sam’s in the next room.”

The demon shrugs. “So?”

“So, I’d rather he didn’t know about…this.”

Crowley starts undoing his tie and kicks his shoes off into the corner. “Well then, you’d better keep quiet, hadn’t you?”

“I’m not doing this now,” says Dean again, trying to sound firm while being quiet enough that Sam won’t notice voices in the bathroom. He’s worrying enough about Dean at the moment.

“You know, this’ll be easier if you just agree to it,” Crowley says as he unbuttons his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve fucked you. I’ve given you time to settle things with the Moose and dear old Robert, now I’m asking you to uphold your end, so to speak.”

“And what if I say no?” Dean growls. This all feels a little too much like a God-Cas seduction.

“Well then deal’s off. You vowed to give me your body and soul. Refusing them now is a violation of your contract. Is that what you want? Your brother will fall to pieces, Bobby will drop dead and Castiel will be flying on wings made of monsters again. All because you don’t want to be a good boy for daddy.”

“Can’t we do it later?” Dean asks, desperate to keep it away from Sam’s ears. Sam has damn good hearing. Already he might have heard enough to knock on the door and ask awkward questions.

“I want to do it now,” Crowley replies calmly. “I’ve been patient and generous and I intend to continue that way, so long as I can count on you to behave. I mean come on, I haven’t even asked you to stop hunting demons.” The demon kicks away his trousers, finally finishing the process of getting naked.

Dean has trouble lifting his eyes above waist level. That dick is just there, taunting him with memories of how it felt. How it tasted. “I don’t want Sam to hear. That’s all.”

“Then like I said,” Crowley purrs, stepping into the shower, “Just stay quiet.” He runs his hands over Dean’s wet skin. “Turn around, brace yourself against the wall.”

Shower-sex has never been on Dean’s top ten list of positions, but hopefully it’ll be better as the one receiving. He’s not entirely sure he can count on Crowley to catch him if he slips though. Sure, the guy’s fast and strong, but he’s also a malicious son of a bitch. Something makes a clicking sound and Dean turns his head to see Crowley popping the lid off of a small bottle of lavender-scented oil. “That’s Sam’s.”

Crowley grins. “Oh good.” He pours some into his hands and before Dean can complain about the girly stench, those slick hands are on his chest. Dean gasps, only just about catching himself in time to prevent a moan escaping his lips. Damn his perky nipples. They always let him down.

“That feel nice?” Crowley asks in a low murmur that Dean barely hears over the sound of the falling water. The oil is beginning to lather and yes, it feels damn good to have those firm, clever fingers massaging into his sensitive nipples. His cock is already attentive to the situation, his body a puppet under Crowley’s physical manipulation.

“Just do me and go,” Dean begs in a whisper, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before he forgets himself and makes a noise to draw Sam’s attention.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” One of Crowley’s soapy hands slides down to bathe Dean’s erection in lavender-scented bubbles. Dean tries very hard not to fuck into the demon’s fist and almost succeeds. All the while, Crowley talks into his ear in a low voice. “We’re going to be together a long time, you and me. You need to know that after a long, hard evening, Uncle Crowley will be here to give you some sweet oblivion. Stop fighting it. Enjoy yourself, love.”

Dean grits his teeth so tightly that his jaw creaks. He doesn’t want to want this. But when one of Crowley’s fingers begin the trespass they first tried just over a week ago, Dean carefully widens his stance on the wet floor of the bath to give the demon better access.

“This doesn’t have to be about servitude,” Crowley says as he fucks Dean with his finger. It’s hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. “I propose a partnership based on mutual pleasure.”

“Sure, whatever, just…ahhh…” It just isn’t fair for Crowley to expect conversation out of him right now. The shower sprays into Dean’s mouth as he tilts his head back, but he just sputters it out as Crowley works two fingers in deep. Sam’s going to wonder why he used all the hot water. Fuck. “Hurry up.”

“Fine.” Crowley hurries. 

“Fuck!” Dean slaps his palms against the wet tiles as he’s suddenly filled without warning. “That hurt!”

There’s a knock at the bathroom door. “Dean?”

Crowley eyes him with amusement then begins dragging his index finger teasingly around Dean’s left nipple. 

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean calls out, though god knows how he manages to keep his voice level. “Just caught my shin on the tap.”

“Man up, Dean,” Sam teases, before they hear his footsteps move away from the door.

“You heard him,” Crowley whispers. “Take it like a man.” 

After that Dean gives up on protesting. Crowley fucks him hard, but to Dean’s utter mortification it’s no less pleasurable than it was just over a week ago. He comes with Crowley’s hand covering his mouth to stop him from crying out. When he sort-of-accidentally bites down on one of the demon’s fingers, Crowley grunts and shoves his hips hard. With all the heat and water around them Dean has trouble feeling each sensation distinctly, but knowing that the King of Hell just came inside him is still way fucking hotter than it ought to be.

“See, now?” Crowley purrs against his shoulder. “Isn’t this more fun when we get along?”

Dean nods and rests his forehead against the wet wall. Crowley pulls away from him and steps out of the shower. Blearily, Dean watches him dress.

“Is this really all you want from me?” he mumbles, his tongue thick in his mouth.

Crowley smiles, already looking impeccably dressed somehow. “Well you are very good at it, love. Why, is there something else you wanted to offer me?”

“Nah, I’m good with being the King of Hell’s booty call,” Dean replies gruffly. “Could be worse.”

“That’s the spirit,” Crowley chuckles. “Let’s face it, life was never going to be roses for you.” His hand ghosts down Dean’s spine possessively, as if he doesn’t mind his suit sleeve getting soaked by the shower. He probably doesn’t. Crowley has probably seen enough bloodstains that everything else is insignificant by now.

When the gentle touch disappears, Dean looks around to find he is alone in the bathroom. The water is no longer steaming hot, so he grabs the shower nozzle and gives himself a quick rinse, using the spray to chase the demon come trickling down his thigh.

He turns the water off and steps out of the shower, snatching a towel from the corner and wrapping it around his waist. In future he’s going to bring his clothes into the bathroom, just in case Crowley feels like paying a visit. Although he’s all washed and he can’t see a mark on his body after wiping the steam from the mirror, Dean can’t help worrying that there’s some bite-mark or bruise that will arouse Sam’s suspicions.

Still he tries to saunter out of the bathroom like nothing is amiss. 

Sam looks up from his laptop and narrows his eyes. “Dean?”

Dean stops in his tracks and stares back. “Yeah?”

“Did you use my lavender oil?”

* * * * * * * *


End file.
